


if i make it through tonight

by actualromeo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Season 3, despite the reader literally already knowing all of it, its not actually happening its just kinda assumed for a second, this is me indulging my love of characters explaining things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23471227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualromeo/pseuds/actualromeo
Summary: "There's a faint rustling somewhere that could be attributed to the old walls, but then there's the sharp wooden sound of a counter slamming, and Georgie frowns. He's definitely home, and.. for fucks sake, definitely up to something."Or, after MAG 89, Jon keeps trying to handle things himself. It doesn't work.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 6
Kudos: 130





	if i make it through tonight

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on impulse immediately after listening to 89 and then it was done for me five episodes later! also i had to go back and edit it for mentions of nonexistent georgie fear lmao. this is self indulgent and expository but hey, it was fun to write!

With two armfuls of grocery, Georgie begins the crawl upstairs to her flat, eager to get inside. Jamming the door open with one shoulder, she calls out, "Jon!" with a stupid grin on, absolutely full to bursting with the tale of the idiot who'd accosted her at the grocers. Despite all the-- everything that is Jon; his suspicious job loss, his stalkers, the paranoia, the  _ terror, _ and the recordings... it's nice to share a house with him again. A romantic relationship might have gone spectacularly bad, but they did make good housemates. Setting down the groceries, she realizes Jon's made no response. She calls again, "Jon?" to see if he's home, and waits, listening. There's a faint rustling somewhere that could be attributed to the old walls, but then there's the sharp wooden sound of a counter slamming, and Georgie frowns. He's definitely home, and.. for fucks sake, definitely up to something.

The bread can be stored in a minute; Jon's catastrophic mental state is probably a priority. Though he's certainly trying to be quieter, she can still tell he's in the bathroom, and the handle only jiggles: locked. "Jon."

For a second, there's no response. Then the moron seems to realize that Georgie knows he's here, and gives a little, "One second," and Jesus. She can hear the strain. Quietly, a, "fuck, fuck,  _ ow, _ " follows, with the sharp sound of unwrapping bandages from the roll, and Georgie reaches up the door frame for the key-- there's a master key to stored on the frame of every door in the flat.

"I'm giving you two seconds to explain or I'm coming in," she says lightly, though she intends going, regardless of what he says. Then, to be fair, she adds, "I'm coming in anyway, actually. Hope you're decent." Not like they haven’t already seen enough of each other's naughty bits.

Jon's frantic scrabbling becomes more frantic, calling, "I'm-- I'm not! I'm--" an agonized, "Fuck." By the time Georgie's unlocked the door, he's halfway to his feet, and the door knocks into his knees, sending him sprawling back to the floor, deceptively long legs tucked under him in a W, the way that scientists have been trying to get people to stop sitting for years. He's not meeting her eyes, sitting at maybe a 3/4ths angle. The position hides the arm he's desperately holding behind his back, but gives her a full eyeful of the bandage on his other forearm, both sleeves of his white button-up pushed up.

Really, with the way he's been acting, she should've seen this coming. The paranoia, the smoking-- another relapse makes sense. She just hopes they aren't bad enough that she has to bring him to the hospital again. Holding a sigh is harder than it seems, but she bites it back. Instead she says, "Up," and, though looking frustrated, Jon climbs to his feet. "Your hand." They had a sort of ritual about it, back in college; caring but unemotional. Worked better for the both of them, really.

Stubbornly, Jon keeps it held behind him. There's a long second of silence before he mutters, "It's not. I'm. Ugh." His eyes are squeezed shut and head twisted to the side, refusing to even look at her. Absently, she inspects the scars crawling up his neck, into his jaw. Vaguely circular patches, like a mold or rot crawled it's way up him. They're healed, but newer than the last time Georgie’s seen him, and they’re on his arms, his back, his legs, his chest. He refused to explain them. "It's not  _ self harm, _ " he bites out, venom in the words like they'd personally offended him.

"Okay," says Georgie patiently. "Let me see."

"You're not going to like it--"

"Let me see." Finally, though not without reluctance, Jon shows his arm. And Jesus Christ, it's-- "Are those third degree?" His whole hand, it's fucking charred. Pink and red and peeling and bubbling, Georgie has to tear her eyes away from it to look up at Jon. He's still not looking her in the eyes, but at least now in her direction.

He swallows carefully, and his voice is surprisingly steady, if pained, when he says, "Probably not-- mostly second degree, I think, I-- It's, fine, I just need to dress--"

Georgie can't contain the outburst of, "It's not fine! Your hand is-- mutilated! Jon, what--" He flinches, and the blistering fingers twitch, only slightly, causing him to cringe and swear. The horrible flaking and burning goes all the way across the front of his palm and in a staining pink, red, and dark stripe across the back, like he'd grabbed something and it had grabbed him back.

For the first time he meets her eyes, only to object to her concern over his serious fucking wound. "I can't. Georgie, you can't, it's not something I can just  _ say, _ I'm sor--"

"Your hand looks like you stuck it in a fucking fire and you're barely standing, Jon," she says, pulling him closer, where he stumbles, looking very suddenly terrified. She feels terrible for scaring him, he's already visibly panicked, but more than that she feels frustrated. Darkly furious at whatever caused this, but only frustrated with him. "For god's sake I don't know if I even want to see the condition your forearm is in. This-- fucking cult thing that you're involved with," Jon, his stupid arse, gives a high, strained huff of laughter, and Georgie resists the urge to shove him into the counter, instead glaring at him. "This obsession, whoever's stalking you, for fucks sake, I draw the line at whatever this is. I'm not-- I already said I'm not kicking you out, I'm not going to fuck you over here but I  _ need _ to know what's going on. Fuck that, the  _ police _ need to know what's going on if you didn't do this to yourself."

"I didn't--" he objects strenuously, looking almost offended. "The police wouldn't be of any help."

She glares him down, releasing his wrist as gently as she can and stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. "Well the fucking hospital needs to know, at least." But, eventually, she gives in. "Why. Why can't we tell the police. Was it an  _ accident? _ ”

"No, no," says Jon, quiet and barely a breath, looking down at the floor as he settles into a half sit on the counter. There’s a fine tremble to every part of him. "Just-- I mean, they didn't do anything last time, and--"

_ " Last time?” _

"Gertrude's murder." He brings his tattered hand up to run through his hair and flinching violently the second it makes contact, seeming to only remember at that moment his serious injury. Still, it doesn't deter him from prattling on, falling into a frantic mutter. "I mean, they're not doing anything about that, and  _ I _ certainly haven't been found yet, no matter if it's just Tonner hunting me, and she could certainly..."

Gaping, Georgie raises her hands to shut him up. "Jon," she says, low and careful, taking a deep breath to steady the growing anger in her chest. Murder. Jesus christ. With glazed, manic eyes, Jon brings his gaze up to meet hers. The worst part is he looks genuinely confused, like he doesn't understand that every word he says paints a... horrible, horrible picture. "I'm going to recount to you what the things you just said imply, and you're just going to nod, or shake your head," she says, surprised her voice is as steady as it is. Jon blinks, and taking that as an acknowledgement of her words, Gerogie starts. "Gertrude, your-- the woman who used to hold your job? I've heard you," she waves a hand, "Muttering about her. She's dead, she's been murdered, and the police haven't done anything about it, nor have they  _ found you. _ " She places enough emphasis on it that Jon finally seems to catch on, mouth falling open.

He jerks upright, shaking his head, pushing himself off the counter but nearly collapsing in the process. "I didn't-- I didn't kill her, I didn't kill anyone, I promise, I'm--"

"Jon," Georgie says, at the end of her rope, no matter how pathetic Jon looks. "If you didn't kill anyone, tell me from the beginning. Actually? Tell me in the car, we're going to the hospital." He opens his mouth to object but she just shakes her head. "We're going to the hospital, Jon." It’s necessary, but honestly, if he manages to get through a hospital visit long enough for those injuries without getting a psychiatric referral, she’ll eat her own shirt.

Finally, he gives a shaky nod, and stands. Georgie gives in to how weak he looks and supports him at one side, and stays even though he makes an attempt to bat her off. He makes a move for the tape recorder but the wince stops him just enough for Georgie to move him past it, getting him out the door and down into the car. "Alright. Uh," he says, seated in the passenger’s side and gripping his arm. He gives a hollow laugh. "Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding uh.. God?" he gives another chuckle, desperate and pained, and Georgie shoots him a tired glare, which softens when he sobers up, shaking his head. Then, without prompting, he starts. "I worked, uh, with The Magnus Institute. Head Archivist, sorting the statements, the... you know. It has a reputation, I suppose. I thought it was all, just, nonsense, for the longest time, and then... things about the death of my predecessor, Gertrude-- it was suspicious, and then, they found her body. After the, worms."

"Worms?"

"Yeah," says Jon, without elaborating. "She was murdered. Shot in the back, three times, by a handgun. I got. You know.  _ Obsessive. _ A little bit. You know how I am. I thought, it must have been someone working in the archives and fuck, there weren't many of us. Tim, Sasha, Martin, Elias-- god, it probably was Elias. I burned bridges with all of them, just, being paranoid-- Tim never really, forgave me, and Sasha..." he trails off despondently, and swallows. "Well. She's dead." He tries to laugh, it doesn't work. "Please, just, when I say this, don't call me crazy." Pausing for air, he looks over at her. "Promise me."

"..I promise," Georgie sighs at last. She has a horrible suspicion that she’s telling the truth. That she’ll even believe him.

"I didn't kill her. Some... fucking, monster killed her. This thing, that was  _ not _ Sasha, had been masquerading as her for months. It's-- it works under this Thing, with a capital T, this entity-- Gertrude called it The Stranger, the 'I Do Not Know You.' It's a god."

A quiet, pained, "Jon," slips out of her mouth.

"Or, no, not a god," he says frantically, trying to back up from the precipice of crazy he's just sauntered right up to. "It just.. is! It just is, it's this.. entity, that's the best word. There's several of them, I don't know how many. I thought.. I could destroy it, maybe, fuck, get Sasha back, by destroying this, uh-- it's not relevant, it was a stupid plan, stupid, stupid." His unburnt hand goes slamming into his thigh, causing a hiss of pain, and Georgie isn’t fast enough to stop it. "The point is, I fucked up, and Micheal, this-- Jesus, how do I begin to explain Micheal. He has bones." Georgie squeezes her eyes shut. "Yes, I know," he hisses, sounding frustrated. "This all sounds batshit insane. But they're all in his hands. They're fucking horrible. He's an aspect of-- maybe he  _ is, _ I don't know-- another Entity, the uh, the-- The Distortion. Spirals. Fractals. He saved me, sent me-- down, to these tunnels-- they're irrelevant, another one of my stupid obsessions."

Jon stares off out the windshield for a second, with this haunted, guilty expression on his face, caught in some memory Georgie can't even begin to discern. He jerks back to reality, taking a breath. "I met with, ah, a man, Leitner, immediately after my life was nearly ended by the Sasha-thing, he saved me, _please_ god do not ask, and he explained.. this. That, that the entities exist, and somehow I've tripped and fell into a fucking leash and collar for one of them," he laughs, horribly, and Georgie glances at him again to see that he's crying. Not sobbing, he doesn't do that. Just leaking tears, shaking, with an expression like he's only just now processing what he’s talking about. Crazy or not, Georgie's heart pangs for him, and she reaches one hand out to his side, uncurling his normal hand from the fabric of his pants and taking it in her own. He only then seems to notice he's crying, and hunches over, blocking his face with his other hand in a futile attempt to stop Georgie from watching, so she looks away

When he doesn't continue, she gives him a minute to calm down and gently prods: "Leash and collar, huh?"

By the time he's ready to talk, he's pulled his hand away from her and wiped his face, breath steadying. "The Eye, the uh, The Beholding. It watches, it Knows, it drives me to Know. The Archivist position tied me to it-- or, fuck, maybe I've been marked from birth, but god knows everyone's intent on calling me Archivist like it's, some mantle, something important. I don't know, I don't know  _ anything. _ ” A long gulp for air. “Leitner died. I went out for a smoke, that's why I started again, finding out I'm-- owned, that everything I've ever done or do or touch is stained by some, higher power dictating me? Bit much." His attempted sardonic laugh peters out to a sort of whine. "I came back and his body-- well. Must have been him, he was sitting right where I left him, and there were tufts of gray hair floating in that brutalized, dripping pulp that was left of the man. I’d brought a pipe to defend myself from.. Not-Sasha, and then it was covered in his blood as  _ well _ as my prints, and well. He was in my office. I was still... panicking, when Tim and Martin-- uh, my old assistants. They found him, and, then they found me, and I.. uh... got the impression I wasn't particularly welcome back. I didn't kill him." At Georgie's silence, he jerks his head up, begging, "I didn't, Georgie, please."

"I believe you." It comes out of Georgie's mouth unbidden. Fuck, she shouldn't believe him, not at all. Her idiot college boyfriend has clearly just, gone off the rails, trying to resurrect old gods and killing an innocent man. Believing him is stupid, but she doesn’t even begin to consider that he might be lying. Worse yet, it makes sense to her.

(Even if she didn’t, she probably would’ve lied.  _ Something _ happened to Jon, that much is clear. He doesn’t just.. cry. Through all his paranoid, manic episodes in college, Jon didn’t cry. Even afterwards, in the guilt over whatever he'd done, he just gritted his teeth and buried his hands in his hair and coped, just, terribly, but never cried.)

"I'm-- don't get me wrong, I'm definitely pissed you failed to mention the very important fact that you’re  _ wanted for murder _ . But. I believe you. You're going to have to show me any sort of evidence for the.. gods claiming you, but I believe that you didn't kill him. Jesus.” She's not sure he's noticed, but she's pulled into the ER's parking lot, waiting for him to finish. 

As if to reassure her, Jon says, “The police, ah-- they.. I’m not certain they’re following me?” He pitches up, uncertain. “Gertrude-- they didn’t care about her death, barely investigated it. Basira, a police-- well, a former police officer, told me they sweep these things under the rug. I’m not certain, what their, ah.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says finally, sighing.

Slowly, Georgie nods, with a sigh of her own. Finally, she asks: “What about the burns?"

"A woman with skin like candle wax told me, uh, she-- worked with the cult for.. The Desolation. Blackened Earth. They like fire, she told me to shake her hand. Evidently, I didn't get the memo from when she grabbed me," he gestures at his wrapped arm, "that it would burn. Stupid. Stupid."

"Very, stupid," she hums. His hand does look like he shook hands with molten wax, with the suspicious placement of the burns. Georgie considers, looking out the window. If Jon did murder that poor man, what was it, Leitner? She's already been harboring a fugitive, and something about whatever he's saying... it feels right. This explanation-- of entities, with influence in their life? Yeah, actually. Georgie is willing to hear whatever evidence Jon has. She has her own, less-than-natural experiences (read: year long depressive fugue) that certainly need an explanation. Finally, she opens her mouth, and the car door. "We're here. What are you going to tell the doctors?"


End file.
